When a lady bent on ruining rogues and a duke set on revenge attempt to derail each other’s plans, passion erupts into a love for the ages.

After being left brokenhearted by a duplicitous rake, Anne Adair no longer desires a husband—she wants justice. She’s traded in her foolish dream of happily-ever-after for the much more sensible one of thwarting the blackhearted lords who prey on innocent debutantes. But her first mission proves rather complicated when the dashing, devilish Duke of Kilmartin comes to the aid of her target.

Simon Sedgewick, the newly titled Duke of Kilmartin, never thought he would return to England, let alone attend a ball full of simpering lords. But when his oldest friend’s reputation is being smeared and Simon discovers that the perpetrator is none other than his enemy’s granddaughter, his long-festering desire for vengeance flares to life.

The moment Simon spies Miss Anne Adair across the glittering ballroom, he knows that the ravishing beauty is the perfect instrument for the retribution he thought lost to him. He does not know, however, that Anne has devised a scheme of her own. And soon, these two wary hearts will discover that the best laid plans are no match for love.

EXCERPT

When Simon stepped onto the near empty terrace after Anne, cool air swept over him, evoking a grin. The scent of lilac trailed after her in an enticing swirl. He noted she gave a little shiver, and he had to restrain the urge to laugh. He was a Scot, and as such, this cold that the English likely burrowed under mounds of blankets and layers upon layers of clothing to escape was merely a bit of chill in the air to him. These English would die if hit by a Scottish winter wind. In Scotland, the air was so bitterly frigid at this time of year that it made one’s teeth and bones ache.

He could take a naked swim in this paltry frost and never even get a chill. Not so for Anne. Already, her shivering increased under his fingertips that rested against the small of her back. A perfectly curved spot, he could not help but note. Her fine silk dress could not be providing much warmth, and the stubborn lass had rejected his suggestion that she have the servant fetch her mantle. Her pride would be her downfall, except it happened to provide a well-needed reason, if he planned correctly, for her to come see him tomorrow.

He almost chuckled when he thought about her cheeky reply to his suggestion that she get her mantle. She’d said the cold did not bother a hale and hearty English lady, such as herself. He detected a strange accent in her speech that made him suspect she’d not been raised entirely in England and also made him curious about her. Too curious. This was a purposeful seduction for revenge, not a courtship.

She was, he had to admit, not exactly as he had assumed she’d be after watching her from across the ballroom. He’d thought she’d be haughty and acerbic, perhaps even coldly aloof—rare beauties who were aware of it so often were—yet she seemed almost vulnerable and bumbling, as if easily embarrassed and fearful that she had somehow hurt him with her words. Odd, indeed, given her self-professed campaign to destroy Rutledge.

He guided her toward the far end of the terrace to a corner lit only by one flickering torch. It was well away from the other couple so he could speak to Anne in private. He came to a stop, and she immediately stepped away and turned, leaving a respectable distance between them. He took one brief second to allow the wave of shock that her beauty, illuminated by the moonlight above, caused him. It would not serve to become entranced by a woman merely because she was stunning. Anne was almost certainly cut from the same cloth as her grandfather, and Simon would, therefore, be seducing her as intended.

He could see gooseflesh had risen on her chest, and her lips were pressed firmly together, likely to keep her teeth from chattering. He resisted the urge to offer her his topcoat. He suspected she would need to be unbearably cold before she would take it anyway, and he could not afford a misstep with his topcoat. It was key to seeing her again. “Tell me, Anne—”

“Miss Adair,” she corrected, though a conflicted look passed over her face.

“In private, I will call ye Anne,” he said, purposely holding her gaze.

She narrowed her eyes. “What makes you believe the occasion will ever arise again that we shall be in private together?”

“Instinct,” he replied.

“I daresay your instincts need some sharpening,” she replied archly.

The lady before him now, this feline with her claws out, was more akin to the woman he’d expected to encounter.

“Perhaps,” he said easily enough. He’d learned long ago when building his timber empire that one of the surest and quickest ways to best your competition was to set them off their guard.

Act in precisely the opposite way they would expect, given the situation.

She blinked, the only hint of his surprising her, but it was enough to bolster him. She set her hands to her hips and cocked her head. “I do not have the patience or time for games, Your Grace.”

“Simon,” he insisted, knowing full well she’d likely rebut him.

“Your Grace will do,” she said, each word punctuated.

“Not for me,” he replied. “In private, I insist ye call me Simon. However, I will abide by foolish English rules at all other times, as I’d never wish to do anything to draw yer reputation into question.”

She surprised him by chuckling. “Come,” she said, “let us dispense with your weaving of deceits, shall we?”